


You Are Not What Happened to You (But It Is Part of Who You Are)

by emrys (livingshitpost)



Series: The One Where Bucky Is A Dad [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon Related, Flashbacks, Forced Pregnancy, Fucked Up, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intrusive Thoughts, Medical Trauma, Menstruation, Mild Gore, Misgendering, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Nonbinary James "Bucky" Barnes, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pregnancy, Rape Aftermath, Trans Male Character, Trans Male James "Bucky" Barnes, Trans Pregnancy, Violent Thoughts, all aboard the pain train, beep beep bitches, edit: doin smth w em, i'm working on an oc based of this but i dunno if i'm gonna. do anything w em., set in 2016, u can pry transmasc nb bucky frm my cold dead hands!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingshitpost/pseuds/emrys
Summary: The words rise like bile in his throat. They come up before he can stop them, forced out against his will.It only reminds him all the more.





	You Are Not What Happened to You (But It Is Part of Who You Are)

_"Longing. Rusted. Seventeen."_

_He's screaming. He's ignored._

_"Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign."_

_Creaking from leather and metal alike._

_"Homecoming. One. Freight car."_

_The screaming stops._

_"Good morning, Soldier."_

_"Ready to comply."_

_"Stand up. And strip."_

 

Bucky feels like plunging his cybernetic hand into his guts and ripping out his own uterus.

Natasha feels like driving a knife through her own hand for the twinge of jealousy at the implication his body is making.

Neither of them do it, of course, but the urges gnaw at the backs of their minds. Incessant and painful and louder than they have any right to be.

As urges usually are.

And, as Bucky's urges usually do, it ends with him on the floor.

(But this was because he decided to act upon a lesser urge to lay down on the floor, so he supposes it's fine.)

(And Natasha is on the floor too.)

"Man," he grumbles, "I fucking  _suck_."

"Where's that coming from?"

Bucky grunts. He curls in on himself.

"Your body might suck," she says, staring at the ceiling, "but you don't."

A low groan from deep in his throat.

"I hate this."

She hums in agreement. "I feel you," she says, though she hasn't in many years. "Periods are the fucking worst."

He's quiet for a moment.

"You okay?"

He shakes his head.

She turns onto her side, leaning on her elbow. "Wanna talk about it?"

He sighs. "Brings back bad memories."

"Memories?"

He nods. 

"Of?"

His voice is quiet.

"Hydra."

"Ah."

 He goes quiet again.

"I hate to say it, but . . ." He sighs. "I'm kinda jealous."

"Of what?"

"Steve." He folds his organic arm under his head and drums his metal fingers on the floor for a few seconds. "And you."

Her brows knit together. "Steve I get, but why me?"

"You don't—" He struggles to find the right words. "You don't have to deal with  _this_ anymore."

She doesn't say anything.

"I know, that's terrible of me. You didn't get a say in the matter. I don't have any right to be jealous."

"You don't need to apologize."

"I didn't."

"Not with your words, but I know how to read an atmosphere."

"Oh." He turns into his arm. It muffles the sound of his voice when he says "okay."

 "Hey." She mirrors his position. "It's fine. I'm not mad at you or anything. It's completely understandable."

He doesn't meet her gaze.

"They used me," he says softly. "In more ways than one."

He glances up. She's looking at him intently, almost worried. He closes his eyes.

"When they found out . . .  _what_ I was—y'know, not-" he sighs. "Not biologically, uh, right." His tongue feels thick and dry in his mouth. "They decided to, um, to take advantage of that. If you know what I'm saying."

 She nods. "Yeah, I think I do."

He shifts uncomfortably. "They did it seven times, I think. I mean, we both know my memory isn't the best, but . . ." He shrugs before continuing with a sigh.

_"Bring him in."_

"They did it, y'know, . . . the old fashioned way. And only ever intervened if there was a legitimate threat to their potential soldier."

_Alone and bare and desperate. Gripping his own taut skin so harshly that blood slides down his stomach._

_They take the child and, after a while, drag him out for a quick examination, just to be sure he won't be dead in an hour._

"Otherwise, they usually just left me alone on the floor of a soundproof room and just came in to take, uh . . . it. When the ordeal was over." He lets out a shuddery breath.

_Leather creaking under the strain. Men roughly cutting open his constricting muscles. Animalistic screaming._

"I still have scars from where they hacked me open and took a couple of them out. No anaesthetics or anything. Just strapped me down, and . . ." He's shaking now, but his voice manages to stay steady. "I think there were, what, seven total? Eight counting the first one. That one I lost."

_Blades and crops taken to him again and again. Hours spent in that fucking chair, just because they wanted to hear him cry out in pain._

He sits up and stares at his hands. "God, they were pissed about that." He's almost laughing, but the weak attempt at a smile quickly falls from his face. His breathing becomes shallow.

"They . . ." He swallows. "They're probably still out there." His voice is barely a whisper.

"James?"

He doesn't respond. 

"Forty-nine. Fifty-six. Sixty-seven. Seventy-two. Eighty-five. Ninety-three. Two thousand." His fingers tangle themselves in his hair. "God. Fuck, the youngest is only fifteen or sixteen years old. Fuck."

"Barnes, you don't have to—"

"I wonder if any of them are dead. It'd be a kinder fate than still living as one of Hydra's weapons." Another empty chuckle. "Fuck, they've only known that hell for their entire lives. They don't even have broken memories to fall back on if they ever _do_ get out." His entire body is shaking. He's curled in on himself, trying to vanish into the crushing black hole in the pit of his chest. "Fuck, it's my fault, isn't it?"

"Of course it isn't."

"I b-brought them into this world," he heaves.

"Not willingly."

"I- I don't-"

And then he's on his hands and knees. Chyme and spit dribble from his lips. A puddle of vile chunks lies beneath him. He stinks of acid and shame.

Natasha sighs through her nose and stands up. She pulls Bucky to his feet and wraps one arm under both of his, guiding him to the kitchen sink, and helps him to rinse his face. 

"'M sorry," he mumbles. He squeezes his hands into fists in an attempt to hide just how badly they're shaking.

"Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong."

He makes a sound between a grunt and a hum, unconvinced. His vision is blurred.

She flicks his forehead. He makes a face.

"Unnecessary."

"I disagree."

When she's done, she grabs a dishtowel for him to dry his face. He sniffles.

"Thank you," he says after a moment.

"No problem." She starts to pull out what she'll need to clean the carpet. "And, James?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a good person."

It's not what she meant, but he understands. He chuckles to himself. "Thanks."

The testosterone will start working soon, he tells himself. Then at least part of this will be over.

One less thing to worry about.


End file.
